Blood Curse (DarkWorld: A Soul Tracker Novel Book 3) Read online

  Heading back to the Rehab Center, I sent a prayer of gratitude to the Lady Ailuros. My job as a trainee drug counselor gave me access to a patient information network, which acted as a grapevine of the abused. One of the ways to sniff out a Wraith. Along with countless other addicts, Senator Keyes daughter Katie had sought secret refuge from his beatings in the euphoria of drugs. Her young, innocent face, so similar to mine. A different world and we could have been friends — giggled over boys and neoned our hair together. Shared stories of our first kisses.

  But reality had a way of keeping that alternate world very well cut off from me. So I had concentrated on helping her.

  Wraiths left a residue on their victims. A substance in their breath, which clings to those they came into close contact with. And those they tortured and abused. A substance only I could see. Katie had worn the pale peach tendrils around her in a misty shroud. An almost coral sign akin to a neon arrow.

  Wraith marks the spot.

  And I wasn’t about to complain. That very residue allowed me to track them, hunt them.

  And kill them.

  Skin Deep Ch2

  The door stood open and my supervisor walked back and forth, already arranging the chairs in a cozy circle. Clancy grinned as I entered. “Hello, Miss Tardy,” she teased. I stuck my tongue out at her and stashed my backpack behind the desk.

  I always arrived at least thirty minutes early, something she teased me for often enough. Today, despite still being wired from the hunt last night, I was only fifteen minutes early, so technically, she was right and I was late.

  I’d headed to the group therapy session in spite of the dull headache pounding my skull with the feverish tenacity of a jackhammer. Post-assassination stress headache. I blinked the thoughts away and focused.

  While these sessions weren’t compulsory for the clients, my attendance was mandatory as far as I was concerned. I’d never missed a session since I started working for the Sandhurst Centre for Rehabilitation—also known as the Rehab Centre.

  “You okay?” Clancy’s voice cut through my thoughts and I realized I still stood at the table, stock still.

  I nodded. “I’m fine, just a headache.” I squeezed my forehead, trying to massage the throbbing away. The pain had crept up on me, so unbearable now I couldn’t swallow without feeling it pulse in my throat and in my skull.

  Clancy tucked her long, dark hair behind her ear and walked over to me, her green eyes narrowing on my face. “Look, take off if you’re not feeling up to it, okay? Go home and sleep it off.”

  I shook my head and regretted it immediately as a sudden throb gripped my head in an agonizing vice. Swallowing a groan I said, “No, really, I’ll manage.”

  “Alright. But you look like crap. What will our kids think?”

  A giggle escaped my lips. “Yes, Ms. McBride. I’ll put on a happy face for the kids,” I answered, my voice still dry but filled with laughter.

  Clancy grinned and rummaged through the desk, rearranging paperwork, her hair hiding her features. Our coloring—hair, eyes, even skin tone—was so similar many people assumed we were related. I took it as a compliment. Despite being Human, Clancy embodied everything I wanted in a friend and mentor. And she always had my back.

  But she didn’t know I wasn’t Human. And I had no intention of finding out how she would react to my true identity. What would she think if she knew her bright young counselor was a Panther shapeshifter? Humans weren’t known for their acceptance of the unknown and I wanted our relationship to remain just the way it was.

  A hum in the corridor announced the first arrivals, who usually waited for company before they entered. Clancy and I fiddled with paperwork until the group settled. Still officially in training, a qualified counselor often joined me for assessments. And each class proved an educational experience for me.

  The stragglers trickled in and the group began to settle.

  Todd Denfield, one of our regulars, sat back in his chair, almost melting into the metal backrest. A picture of enforced, bored non-attention. When Todd’s rough voice broke the usual beginning-session silence, nobody in the room was more surprised than myself.

  “How do you become gay?” Heads turned as the fourteen-year-old boy voiced the question, eyes downcast.

  Silence smothered the group, palpable and thick. My jaw stuck, unsure how to respond. But even as Clancy and I shared a quick glance to decide who would respond, one of the other patients answered the question.

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ gay, Todd.” Sam answered. He was one of the older, already-rehabilitated kids, who returned often to attend the open forum. He admitted it reminded him of what he had to lose, of how hard he’d worked to pick himself up from where he’d fallen. “Maybe tell us why you’re askin’?”

  Todd gave him an impatient glare and shook his head. Eye-wateringly bright fluorescent light glazed his dark hair, gelled and spiked to stand straight up in places, while curtaining his eyes in oily fronds. “So—how does it happen? I mean, how do you know you’re...gay?”

  “You just do, like knowin’ you’re straight.” Sam looked around the room. He received a chorus of nods. It seemed the simplest answer, and the best one.

  “And can you stop?” Todd asked. “Like today you’re gay and tomorrow you’re straight.”

  “There are people who are bisexual, which means they find both sexes attractive. But I don’t think a person’s sexual orientation can change overnight.” Sam sat back, satisfied with his explanation.

  Todd stared at the older boy, dark eyes thickly lined in black. He’d failed to hide the purple crescents hugging each dull orb, betraying nights of sleeplessness. Todd’s upper lip curled. A thankful smile made slightly grotesque by two tiny silver piercings that clung to the soft flesh of his lower lip. As I watched him, the telltale signs beneath the pasty-pale goth foundation became clearer. Faint coral smudges stained the skin at his neck, almost hidden by a thick, studded-leather collar. His clothing looked unnatural, uncomfortable. A staged, gothic treatment, which I’d always taken as an outward indication of his inner emotional turmoil. I’d been presumptuous. So blind.

  Good thing Clancy knew I felt a bit under the weather. At least now, she wouldn’t realize I sat there almost paralyzed with shock.

  How did you miss the signs, Odel? You’re slipping big time.

  They’d been right there in front of me all along and I’d missed them. The peach residue which clung around Todd’s neck screamed of a Wraith’s touch, something I saw every day—because it’s my job to hunt the god-damned soul-sucking freaks.

  I let out a tiny breath of relief. Todd wasn’t the one possessed. Perhaps his father? But, the many traces of pale peach and coral located around Todd’s neck and arms proved the Wraith definitely abused the boy. I may be too late to help him. My stomach twisted. This lack of observation and awareness could mean the death of an innocent boy.

  Aching head temporarily forgotten, I contemplated my next move as the session disbanded and the kids trailed out of the room and down the hall.

  I sighed as Clancy waved a quick goodbye, shaking a finger at me—a warning to go home and rest. I began stacking chairs to move them to the storeroom, still chock-full of guilt for being so blind to the presence of a Wraith around Todd. No matter how much I convinced myself the make-up Todd had slathered on hid the signs too well, spotting Wraiths was my job.

  The vicious throb returned with a vengeance once silence descended on the room. I tried to ignore it while it ate farther into my brain, farther into my neck and shoulders. I sat heavily on my seat and rolled my head from side to side, hoping the movement might relax the muscles, while I pressed desperate fingers into lumps the size of peach pits pebbling the muscles in my neck.

  A Wraith-hunt now was inconvenient to say the least. But, headache be damned. I had to make time for a bit of recon at Todd’s house later in the day.

  A boy’s life hung in the balance.

  Skin Deep Ch3

>   My head still throbbing, I dragged my body from my office, to make a stop at my friend Tara’s shop. Tara was a Metal-singer, an Ethereal with the ability to manipulate any solid substance with only the power of her mind and the blood that sang in her veins. Though Tara’s gift lay in working metals, her real power was the strength of her heart.

  When I’d arrived in Chicago to stay with Grandma Ivy, I’d needed a weapon for protection. Grams’ friend Storm had generously provided Tara’s name as a legitimate weapons forger and I’d had a crash course in direct contact with an Elemental Fae. I’d never trusted anyone easily but she was one of the most caring people I knew. Somehow it had been easy to trust her. Deep down I hoped I’d never regret it.

  I set off, jogging the three blocks to Tara’s shop, worried because I hadn’t been able to get her on the phone. Though eager to see the modifications she’d made to my old bow, I was more interested in the ammo she’d been developing. Tara was a weapons manufacturer, but for me she often went above and beyond. She knew about my Hunting and she and her mother Gracie had been searching for just the right substance to fill the cartridges for my jazzed up bow. Just the right substance to kill a Wraith on contact.

  When I reached the shop, a closed sign hung in the window, and peeking in through the front window confirmed the place was draped in shadows. I had more luck at the rear entrance. A broken exhaust pipe propped the back door open. An iron security gate still shut me out though. Tara’s vague, gray shape moved about inside the dingy backroom.

  I peered into the room. Ebony tendrils escaped a haphazard topknot and clung to Tara’s neck and shoulders, slick with sweat. Her pale skin, like most Elementals, bore the swirled markings of the Elemental Fae Court she came from. The glamored patterns remained unseen by Humans unless they had the Sight.

  Through the bars, I watched her smooth the curved blade of a scimitar with the tips of her fingers. The metal glowed red against her fingertips as they slid along the blade, shaving fine slivers off until the edge became so sharp it disappeared. Tara honed bladed weapons capable of slicing through bone like butter.

  I swallowed back the bite of metal as the warmth from the room bathed my skin. Although Tara worked with metal, she never needed a furnace to heat the material to a red-hot, pliable substance. She did pretty well with just her fingers.

  She ceased her work and laid the blade on the worktable. Rising, she dusted her hands on the seat of her pants. I hadn’t dared to disturb while she worked, only rapping my knuckles against the door now as she stretched.

  “Hey, look what the cat dragged in,” Tara said, grinning at the pun. Feline jokes were a favorite of hers, and she managed to throw a different one at me every so often.

  Corny, but cute.

  She shut the gate behind me, leaving the door open for fresh air. Besides a fear of overheating the room, she possessed a second elemental trait—claustrophobia. Adaptation to the Human way of life took longer than a few decades, but most elementals managed to a certain extent.

  “Sorry, I called, but...”

  “Yeah, I’ve been busy back here. A couple of orders keeping me frantic.” She shrugged an apology and moved to the table where the scimitar blade sat. Even without a handle, it was still a vicious enough instrument. “What do you need?”

  “Just running by to pick up the bow. Is it ready?”

  “Oh, sure.” Tara led me into the silent shop, where the odor of metal permeated the air and the dust motes danced in the dull afternoon light.

  “Where’s Gracie?” I asked.

  “Mum was called back to Court. Something’s going on and they needed her right away.” Tara frowned for a moment then disappeared behind the counter. Something must be up in the Fae courts if Tara was worried. I hoped her mother was going to be okay. They both lived on the edges of the Court’s rule, probably breaking a few laws with their weapons manufacturing, never mind their specific, made-to-order ammunitions.

  Tara popped back up seconds later with an object wrapped in black felt. She laid the package on the counter and flipped the edges open to reveal my crossbow. I’d missed it. Small enough to carry around in my backpack, shiny black steel; it was as lethal as it looked.

  “I’ve made a few special modifications for you.” Tara reached into a drawer beneath the counter and handed me a small box. Inside sat a row of tiny vials.

  Tara picked out a single tiny bottle, popped the chamber open on the bow and slid it into the slot. Then she readied the weapon. “This vial is packed tight with microscopic needles. Each needle is filled with a lethal poison. You have to take careful aim because the glass splits on impact and the needles enter the body in a fine spray. It’s so fine it’s undetectable. And untraceable.” Tara smirked, very proud of her efforts.

  “Thanks, this is just amazing. How do you always know what’s perfect for me?” I shook my head as I asked the question, and as expected, she shrugged.

  Minutes later, bow tucked discreetly in my backpack, I headed home.

  I entered my apartment the usual way, taking the steel stairs of the rattling old fire escape, two risers at a time. The fire escape’s rusted bolting threatened to dislodge in too many places. At times it swayed, rebelling against my weight. Light on my feet, I was in no danger of plunging seven stories to the broken sidewalk. I wouldn’t be so bold as to assume the nine-lives theory applied to Walkers. And I wasn’t itching to put it to the test, either.

  I filed away another mental note to get the rusted bolts replaced. My guests used the other entrance to my home—an ancient cage-like contraption, which only worked because my Walker friend Anjelo worked wonders with mechanical whatnots. His smarts were busy impressing the teachers at Crawdon. The last I’d heard he was up for a scholarship or something. I snorted. Guess he’d better be super careful not to let it slip that he wasn’t even Human. It would blast his scholarship to smithereens.

  Only once had I used that abomination of an elevator. Despite my confidence in Anjelo’s nimble fingers and equally agile brain, I became a total wuss when confronted by The Cage itself. Images of the rickety box plummeting to the basement had me fleeing for my trusted fire escape. Somehow, the fire-escape’s tenuous hold on the outside wall didn’t bother me, nor did any other equally obvious dangers my preferred entrance posed.

  Grandma Ivy’s apartment building sat a few blocks away from the Rehab Center in a part of the city that avoided being seen or heard. It straddled the last street of the residential blocks and the first streets of the mostly abandoned industrial quarter. The location was ideal—skirting the city and yet close enough for easy access to uptown, downtown and the abandoned sector.

  Wind buffeted my body and tugged at my clothes with grim ferocity as I reached the topmost landing of the fire escape. A quick jimmy opened the window, which yawned into the living room. The top floor of the old building, loft-like in size and stature, provided the space and freedom I adored.

  It was kind on Grandma’s bank balance too, though I didn’t ask too many questions about that. Before I left home, accounts and money were the last things on my mind. My father and brother dealt with mundane things like bills. My father’s voice simmered in my ear now. Reminders of choices and decisions and living with the bed I made.

  Independence had many prices. Not that I complained. I preferred my current bed, thanks. Although I had a part-time job, my work at the center paid well enough for my needs. What I earned, I happily spread evenly over clothing, my bow and the ammunition for my jobs. I was a Wraith-hunter, not a mercenary, and when one of my marks ate it, no money ever changed hands. The release of their victims was sufficient payment for me. Grandma, in her intermittent visits, took care of groceries and rent payments.

  One day soon she’d have to tell me where in Ailuros’ name it was she disappeared to so often. She never stayed gone for very long, maybe a couple weeks at a time, and she always came back satisfied and happy, if a little drained. She never poked her nose into my business, but made sure I attend
ed college and kept my grades up. She knew my studies were important to me because she knew I loved my job at the centre.

  But despite her support, I never worked up the nerve to tell her about my Wraith-hunting. I was terrified she’d demand I stop because of the danger I put myself in. I’d been hunting for so long that danger no longer bothered me, but I knew my family would kick up a fuss about it. Good thing they never knew Wraith-hunting had been all about on-the-job-training and good few near-death experiences before I got the hang of it.

  Still, sometimes I envied the Human kids at the local college. Such simple, painless lives. I made headway with many of my patients, but I could never take away the reasons they sought refuge in drugs. I saw so much agony and suffering that sometimes, just sometimes, I longed for release. And the power of the Hunt was such a release. A way to make a solid, tangible difference instead of talk, talk, talk.

  But lately, something was really wrong. The frequency of Wraith possessions had increased. In the last month, I’d eliminated twice as many as the previous three months combined. Something made them bolder. Stronger. More violent. And the Veil between the Earth-World and the Wraith-world had seemed strange too. Flimsy, tattered in places. And there was no-one I could go to about it.

  With one leg inside the loft, I paused astride the sill, cocked my Panther ears, and flared my nostrils. I listened. Scented the room for intruders. Somewhere, a trucker gunned his engine. It spluttered and spat before roaring into life.

  All was safe and I swung the other leg into the room and forced the protesting window shut. Having lost its protection against the elements decades ago, the wooden frame stuck, now swollen from the rain. Still, I preferred it that way—harder for intruders to get in and out fast.

  I tugged the band from my loosened braid and ran my fingers through the thick mess, rubbing the sore spots on my scalp. When I was younger, I found it hard to understand why my hair differed from the rest of my singularly blond family. Greer’s hair was white-blond to pure white, and Iain’s was a warmer shade of my sister’s pale. Guess my mother bequeathed only one child with her lustrous locks. For a long time, it had been just one more thing setting me apart from my family. Too late to avoid the chip from settling securely on my shoulder.